


Moments of Oblivion

by dizmo



Category: Wheel of Time - Robert Jordan
Genre: Gen, Missing Scene, Music, Yuletide 2007
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-25
Updated: 2007-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-21 03:11:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/220263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dizmo/pseuds/dizmo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rand and his personal gleeman speak in Rhuidean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moments of Oblivion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sear/gifts).



The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called the third Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose deep in the Aiel Waste. The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time. But it was _a_ beginning.

The wind pushed its way through mountains, crags, and canyons, and then flew easily across sandy desert plains before arriving in an unlikely city. Rhuidean had been uninhabited for a very long time. But water had finally arrived into this desert wasteland. And with it came inhabitants, for the first time in long memory. And one man was responsible for the large desert lake that carried the water.

Rand al'Thor stood at a window overlooking the city, lost in his own mind. The gentle strains of the bard-harp behind him almost completely escaped his notice. He knew he would be taking leave of Rhuidean sooner rather than later, and he would be taking a very large number of Aiel with him over the Dragonwall. How many, though, was still unknown. The Shaido, of course, were a lost cause. Six clans had already agreed to follow him. It was the rest of them that had yet to fall where they would. The clan chiefs he had met with seemed to think they would come, but assurances were not the same as proof. He hoped they were right. He _needed_ as much support as he could find. Whatever support he could find.

He turned from the window after a moment, looking then at the source of the soft music. His own personal gleeman. He would laugh, if the knowledge in the laughter would not just make him weep. Jasin Natael. The gleeman. Not Jasin Natael at all. Not much a gleeman, either. Asmodean. He had one of the Forsaken sitting in his service. If anyone that passed by the man on a daily basis to talk to Rand had any idea, they wouldn't hesitate to kill him. And probably Rand, too. He knew that _he_ would think himself a Darkfriend on account of the man if he didn't know better. But Forsaken or not, if he didn't want to die from attempting to learn how to use _saidin_ on his own, he needed the man, Light burn him for it.

And that wasn't even to mention how the man had gotten into his service in the first place. A gift from Lanfear. As if Asmodean himself wasn't bad enough, that almost made it worse. It wasn't until he noticed that the music had stopped and that Natael was looking at him oddly, his head tilted near sideways, that he realized that he was scowling. He schooled his face to calmness again.

"Is something the matter?" Asmodean asked, breaking the silence.

Rand shook his head. "No. My mind was just wandering. It was nothing."

"Obviously not nothing, to cause that expression." He plucked a few low notes on the harp.

"It is no business of yours, anyway, Natael."

"Of course not," he said blandly. After a short pause, he then continued. "You do know that I am fully in your camp, I hope. I really have no choice in the matter, especially after you..." He grimaced, letting his sentence trail off.

"Yes," said Rand sharply. He had cut his bonds to the Dark One. And from what Asmodean had said, even if he did manage to leave, the little- and poor- teaching he had given Rand already marked him for a betrayer's death. The man was stuck with him by circumstance, just as Rand was stuck with him by necessity. Circumstance or not, he was not about to let him leave. "Is there any more you can tell me about the Forsaken?"

Asmodean sighed then, playing a short repetitive tune. "I have told you everything I know. Again and again. Do you honestly think that we would meet for weekly tea parties? If you ask me again, I will tell you the same thing I have told you before, and you will accomplish nothing except for frustrating both of us."

Rand grunted. "What good are you?"

"Not terribly much, as I could have told you, and did tell you, from the outset. Of _saidin_ , there is much I don't know, even if I were a passable teacher. And of what I do know, there is much I cannot show you because of this shield. Of the other Ch--" He paused at Rand's expression, "Forsaken, I know even less. A poor deal you have managed for yourself, Lord Dragon. Unless you intend to bed me. I could hardly object, although I think that Lanfear would kill the both of us, then."

Rand stood for a moment, poleaxed, his thoughts on _that_ plan, he was sure, painted plainly on his face. Light, Lanfear after him was almost enough without adding Asmodean to the mix. "I will not be needing-- _Light_."

The Forsaken shrugged, and turned back to his harp. "As the Lord Dragon commands, of course." Gentle music filled the air again.

What had Rand gotten himself into? He was sometimes sick to death of being what he was, being who he was. _Ta'veren_ , the Dragon Reborn, the _Car'a'carn_ , fulfiller of who knew how many other prophecies. Blood spilled on the rocks to save them. And he wished he could just go back to herding sheep. But it wasn't an option. Not any more. The world came first, and the Pattern held him in its grip more tightly than any person could ever hope to. He sighed, and turned back to the window, trying to ignore the heat that pressed in on him.

Closing his eyes, he let Asmodean's music wash over him, trying to let it distract him from everything that was hiding in his path. It was a light, pastoral tune, and it took him back, if only for a moment. He had a poor teacher, and perhaps a viper waiting to strike if it seemed he could, but at least for one moment, he could forget. And he doubted he could ask for much more.

  



End file.
